The Curse of the Campfire Weenies by David Lubar

another truck. They took me to a building and hosed me off. Then they tossed me back in the truck, along with other stuff they’d rescued from the dump, and drove to this big outdoor market.

    They put me between a gas grill and a rocking chair. The grill had some rust on it, but it looked like it still worked. The chair was scratched up and the paint was chipped in several places, but the wood seemed solid. I felt pretty good. They could have stuck me with the old dishes and other cheap junk. Being with the grill and the chair helped raise my self-esteem.
    A little later, a man and woman came along.
    â€œOh look, Horace,” the woman said, pointing at me.
    â€œWe have a rocking chair, Emily,” the man said.
    â€œNo, not the chair, next to it,” the woman said.
    â€œOh yeah. The boy. Hmmmm.” The man walked over and stooped down. He looked at me for a while, then nodded at the woman. He talked to the guy about the price, and they argued a bit, but not too much. Then Horace pulled out his wallet and handed over some money.
    Horace and Emily took me home.
    I like it here. I pretty much behave myself. Horace doesn’t own any autographed Yankee baseballs. But if he did, I’d try really hard not to play with them. I might not be so lucky next time.

TOUCH THE BOTTOM
    T hey say Greenhill Lake doesn’t have a bottom. They say the deepest spot, straight below dead center, goes down forever. As long as I can remember, we’ve been coming to the lake for vacation. We rented a cabin there every summer. It’s always pretty much the same. Dad and his buddies sat at a table under a tree and played poker. Mom and the other women talked or read. My friends and I spent the days swimming or hiking through the woods.
    The lake wasn’t very big. I could swim across it the long way without getting tired. And the middle was easy to find. Joey Devon taught me how to do it. You swam out until you could see the white birch along the south bank. You had to line the birch up with the radio tower on the mountain. That got you in the middle, as far as east and west. Then you had to look west and line up the chimney of the third cabin with the sign on the highway. When
all of that was lined up, you were right smack in the middle of the lake.
    That morning, I’d paddled out there on my blow-up raft. I was drifting around with my eyes closed when I got flipped. Once a raft is half flipped over, it’s all over. There’s no way to stop it, no matter how hard you fight.
    So I gave up and tumbled into the water.
    Joey’s laugh greeted me when I came back up. I dunked him. Then we splashed each other until my arms got tired. I guess that wore him out as much as me, because we hung on to my raft and floated for a while, letting the sun bake us into contented lumps of warm laziness. On the shore by the cabin I saw my father chase off a couple geese with a handful of gravel.
    â€œEnough of this lazy stuff,” Joey said. “I’m going to do it. Right now. I’m going for the bottom.”
    â€œYou’re crazy,” I told him.
    â€œWatch me.” Joey took a deep breath, let go of the raft, then jackknifed down. I watched until the murk swallowed his legs from view.
    Just for fun, I held my breath, too. I knew I could go longer than Joey. It was easier for me because I didn’t have to waste any energy forcing myself through the water. Sure enough, well before I felt the urge to breathe, Joey burst back through the surface, gasping.
    â€œTold you,” I said.
    â€œTold me nothing,” he said. “Look what I have.” He held out his fist, clenched shut. Then, slowly, like a magician performing a coin trick, he unfolded his fingers.
Dark, gritty globs dripped from his palm and plopped into the water.
    Mud.
    Bottom mud.
    â€œNo way,” I said, not believing what I saw.
    Joey just grinned.
    That’s when I noticed something floating next to him. “You